MORNING SERIAL

FRANK, in spite of his wish to live up to the sentiments the poem contained, fulfilled its ideals. He was a friend to man. He had brought sympathy and kindness to one who had known so little of these virtues. His house was by the side of the road, and he had stood outside the door to welcome in a stranger to whom he had given solace and comfort.

“Penny for your thoughts!” Ieuan came to with a start, conscious of Frank’s warming smile.

“Well, lad, could you write a poem like that? I hear you’re a literary scholar. Is that right?” “I—I like literature. It was my favourite subject at school — if that’s what you mean, Frank.” “Then what are you going to do about it?” Ieuan paused. Mrs. Jones made some excuse — there were dishes to be cleared, a room to be cleaned. He heard her close the door behind her.

“I don't know, Frank. Sometimes I feel I'd like to be a writer.” “A writer!” Franks forehead creased. “But what kind of writer, Ieuan? What do you want to write about?” “That’s a question I’ve never asked myself,” Ieuan replied thoughtfully. “I-well, I just love books, and ….” “Yes?” “Well, I suppose I’d like to be able to write a book some day.” “It’s not impossible, Ieuan. Not by any means. The education you’ve had will help a lot, but education from books isn’t everything. There are many writers who have never been to school — not school as you and I know it. I should think the most important thing of all is to have experience behind you. Without experience of some sort how can one ever hope to write a book?”

“What would you advise me to do, Frank? It’s not — not too big an ambition, is it?” “Of course not. Why shouldn’t you aim at being a writer if that’s the way you feel. Everyone has an ambition of some sort. The trouble is that we’re not all fortunate enough to be able to see our ambitions realized. But I’d better not dwell too long on that or you’ll have me expounding my theories again.” Frank got up from the chair. He beckoned to Ieuan.

“Have a look at this book, my boy.” Ieuan glanced at the spine. “The Iron Heel — Jack London,” he read.